Easter

Remembering his ancient heritage
Of broken flowers and winter's way with them,
The Wind moves with a sound of faint rage
Through leaf and lily stem.

Remembering the voices that are stilled,
The heads that shone like jonquils in the sun,
The eager hands that long with dust are filled,
We wake and know that the months of cold are done.

O Eucharist of promise unrevealed,
Hope yearly slain and hunger never fed!
Out of our hearts by the new sun unsealed,
Now troop the rising dead.

They reach their pleading hands to the shining crowd,
And years of sleep blow like a mist around them.
Pale and humble are they who were happy and proud,
They are gone in a mist, they are lost before we have found them.

--Jessica Nelson North (1891-1988), poet, novelist, children's book author, and editor.